The Ornithologist's Field Guide to Love (Love's Academic, #1)

by India Holton

But dang it, she really was pretty, with eyes as blue as the Alaskan cat-catching warbler, a mouth as soft as a morning kiss, and a sweet, heart-shaped face—although it was also a rather sweaty face, and currently scowling at him as if she’d like to stab him with her furled parasol. He wished she would. Pretty was nice; naughty was ever so much better.

“Ladies don’t behave in such a vulgar fashion. We shall employ smarter tactics. Seduction, for one.”

Her plain brown coat, accompanied by a small hat, gloves, and air of cultivated intelligence, triggered fear in any man who glanced her way: one catcall, and she might educate them.

They strode along the street with every pretense of not knowing each other. And arriving at the next corner, they parted ways without a word, set on never meeting again. (Then traveled the same route back to Hôtel Chauvesouris, took the same elevator to the seventh floor, and walked down the same corridor to where their rooms were located side by side—but as both vehemently refused to notice this, the narrative is powerless to offer any comment.)

A wise woman allows nothing to ruffle her feathers; she is the ruffler of feathers.

“That man was Devon Lockley,” Badeau said darkly. “He’s a complete rascal. Copious brainpower but all he wants to do is enjoy life instead of spending his days in the noble pursuit of writing scientific papers for his peers to argue over. It’s disgraceful.

“Sorry, pardon me, thank you,” she murmured. But her attention was focused on a book she held open in one hand, and Devon doubted she even knew whose company she’d joined. Whatever it was she read filled her eyes with enthrallment, and as she turned a page she seemed to hold her breath in anticipation. Watching her, Devon found himself holding his own breath too. He was being foolish; he knew it. The woman might be pretty, but she was also a rival in the field, an academic foe, an associate of the unscrupulous Hippolyta Quirm, and so very pretty the air around her seemed to glow. The spectacles alone made him want to kiss her until they fell off invite her to dinner at a nice seafood restaurant. He could still feel her warm, soft lips against his palm from when he’d hushed her in the museum’s basement, and his nerves tingled, begging to touch her again.

“I heard you plagiarized your book!” Oberhufter shouted. “I heard you plagiarized your personality!” Hippolyta shouted in return.

He wanted to undress her brain, stroke her perspective, make her gasp out the most fascinating theory she hid from all other men. (He also wanted to kiss the hell out of her, but that went without saying.)

!!!

“I wasn’t lurking,” Beth retorted. “I was pausing with a sensible discretion.” Devon’s mouth quirked. “One day I’d like to read whatever dictionary it is that you use.”

Men had always been vague shapes at the edge of her awareness, rambling on about sports or telling her how to do something she’d mastered in adolescence.

Beth reached up to remove her spectacles, and he had to force himself not to catch her hand, stop her, since he couldn’t think of a reason for doing so beyond you’re so damned sexy when you wear them, I want to keep handing you things to read. Which, he guessed, she’d find impolite.

There simply wasn’t enough space in the room, although at this point Devon suspected there wasn’t enough space in the entire world for him to comfortably breathe, knowing that Beth Pickering existed.

She wanted to climb into the kiss and build a home there, grow a bright garden, and wake every morning to joyful birdsong.

“But we’re making different journeys,” she said. After all, fun was lovely and kisses were sweet, but tenure was forever.

leaning back against the wall, listening to tiny sounds from the room behind him as if they were ghosts of the breath he kept losing whenever he thought about Beth Pickering.

On the other hand, being a teacher, Beth naturally expected the worst.

The fact that he did not question her, nor hesitate to do as she advised, made Beth tingle all over again.

What would it feel like to have that finger stroke the source of those flutterings? Would she ever have the courage to suggest an experiment? And if she did, would he be willing? “Yes,” he said, and drank wine, smiling, as Beth’s intellect scattered to the winds. “I—um—I beg your p-pardon?” she stammered. “Whatever that dreamy expression on your face is about, yes.” “But you don’t know what I was thinking.” He set the wineglass down and leaned forward across the table. “I’ll always say yes to you, Miss Pickering.” In that sizzling, breathless moment, Beth’s brain ran around desperately trying to retrieve its intellect, and her heart just ran around until she felt quite giddy. But she’d survived two thesis defenses, and there remained in her that same strength, allowing her to at least say, “That is good news, since I want the last petit four.” He grinned and sat back in his chair, gesturing to the plate. “As you wish.”

His tenderness, and the palpable longing Beth could feel in his touch, brought her to tears. All the lonely years dissolved. Devon kissed away from her mouth in a glimmering trail down her throat, but before she could miss him he came back, kissing each sliding tear before touching his damp lips to hers again reverently. For the first time in a life of endless academic successes, she discovered what real happiness felt like.

“I’ll sleep on the floor,” he whispered, moving away— And she caught him, her ink-stained fingers clutching his arms with an ornithologist’s strength. “It’s a cold night,” she said. “Logic dictates we share the bed. If we remain clothed, it will be quite safe.” He raised an eyebrow at that. “Darling, someone should have included at least a little of the humanities in your education.” “I trust you,” she insisted, proving that he’d corrupted her indeed, considering she was able to say something so villainous. His wretched, malnourished heart dropped to its knees and began weeping. He flinched, trying not to leap off the bed and run screaming into the night. “It’s cold,” she repeated, her voice hushed. And Devon heard it then—what she really meant. What she hid behind her nice manners and apologies. The same thing he hid behind his cynicism: deep loneliness and longing for affinity.

Beth went with Devon in something of a daze. Only fifteen minutes prior, she had reached the firm decision that, although she was desperately attracted to the man, there must exist some doubt as to the sincerity of his interest in her, considering she was a plain little owl and he a worldly rake. Furthermore, her own behavior had gone as far from sensible as it was possible to get without losing one’s head entirely (to say nothing of one’s virginity). So while she might reasonably continue a professional association with Devon, intelligence led her back to the same conclusion she’d made at the train station in Canterbury: she must forget romance and focus on winning **tenure**.